Chai Chai....
sounds of the train
and words
slowly fuse to one,
the clay cup of sweet
milky tea,
its many layers
humming
moving
with the running train
the running sky
The running horizon
the first sip
stuck
like fighting
of skybound kites
like a first bite
of kebab long back
like a long-lost
fragrance breathing
again
the train picks up speed
Old thoughts
old living
old ghosts
and
much more
invade again
through many
a window,
the clay cup
I hid under clothes
in my travel bag.
A gentle reminder
of chai
living
and loving,
the train too
was going
back,
only the old man's fort
in semi-closed eyelashes
bowed down, picking
brittle memories....
